


White Noise

by cursedwurm



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First Kiss, Kinda, Making Out, Not Canon Compliant, Other, The Spiral, Vomiting, an attempt at horror, at least i dont think it is, bc i think its hot, canon-typical buried alive-ness, overuse of the word 'static', with the spiral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursedwurm/pseuds/cursedwurm
Summary: Despite being packed tightly in six feet of filthy, sodden earth, the door appears before Mike Crew as clear as day. He doesn't want to see… it, grinning and twisting and laughing its strange, distorted laugh. But with every second Mike spends in the compact earth, the more he realises that anything - even the Spiral - is better than the Buried.
Relationships: Michael "Mike" Crew/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 82





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a joke about the two michaels kissing and now its a lot more. might make a part two idk

Despite being packed tightly in six feet of filthy, sodden earth, the door appears before Mike Crew as clear as day. It's brilliant yellow in colour, so bright and saturated that it looks almost cartoony compared to the brown dirt surrounding it. There's a buzzing coming from it, a static-like humming that penetrates his ears and reaches into the furthest depths of his brain, making him dizzy and nauseous in a manner that isn't too different from vertigo. He knows where the door leads; he can feel the ghost of the electricity that struck him all those years ago coming to life under his scar, drawing him towards the door with a sensation he hasn't felt since he'd joined the Vast. He doesn't want to open the door. He doesn't want to see… _it_ , grinning and twisting and laughing its strange, distorted laugh. But with every second Mike spends in the compact earth, the more he realises that anything - _even the Spiral_ \- is better than the Buried.

Despite the dirt suffocating him, Mike's arm somehow reaches out, his fingers wrapping around the handle of the canary yellow door and turning it downwards. There's a click, muffled by the dense earth around it, before it creaks open and the static in his brain overtakes all other senses, overwhelming his mind in a confusing, dizzying blur that makes him feel sick. It's nothing like vertigo this time; he feels like he's being sucked in, not falling. His very conscience aches, his lungs screaming in agony as they're coated with the thick, viscid mud around him, and he wonders for a moment which of the two evils is the lesser. What's worse, to spend a lifetime trapped by his enemy, or to give in to his tormentor?

Something wet, cold and far too long wriggles against Mike Crew's chest, following the fractal pathway the Spiral had no doubt found him by. It sickens him. His whole body feels wrong in here, his very being begs him to escape. A clump of dirt is coughed up, only for more to fall into his mouth, choking him with its grit and filth and _things_ that squirm and burrow under his tongue. His mind is made up, and somehow he's able to drag his form through the mud and land on the cold - yet somehow scolding hot - surface of the Spiral's corridors. The door slams shut; Mike blinks and it was never even there. Hunched over, he coughs and splutters, clumps of decay and soil and thick, clotting blood splattering over the floor. It hurts. It hurts so, _so_ much to watch his insides hit the ground, to be so vulnerable within the thing that tormented him for over a decade. He can feel the Spiral shifting and changing around him, throbbing and pulsing like a crude and uncanny imitation of a heartbeat. The colours beneath him swirl, so sickeningly bright that his vision doubles and his stomach flips; he doubles over in pain, retching and spluttering as his insides lurch and push upwards towards his throat. A thick phosphorescent liquid hits the floor, bile burning his mouth as he throws up what tastes like vomit and blood but looks like pure neon. The colour stains the ground beneath him, pooling around his fingertips like gore around a wound. Mike groans in pain, coughs and spits out more, watching as it splatters over his hands in large, vivid spots like a child’s fingerpainting. He stares at it, his head hurting too much to process what he sees. The neon mixes with the blood and the dirt, fizzing and hissing like an acid hitting a base - and over that sound, he hears a laugh.

“Hello, Mr Crew,” _it_ chuckles, “Long time no see.”

Mike forces his body upright, not quite able to meet the Spiral’s gaze as it watches him with a look of amusement, its smile twisted into a smug, self-satisfied grin. He narrows his eyes, swallowing down the fear that threatens to bubble up to the surface as he chokes out a few hoarse words.

“What do you want?”

A long, bony hand reaches out towards him and he freezes, letting it tilt his chin upwards so their eyes finally meet. “I don’t _want_ anything, Mr Crew,” it tells him, “I simply got… _hungry._ ” At this, the fear inside of Mike disappears and is replaced by something else, a wave of searing hot anger that makes him grit his teeth and clench his neon-soaked fists at his side. He doesn’t know exactly how long he’d been in the Buried for - and he certainly doesn’t know how long it’s been since he escaped - but he’s just spent what felt like an eternity as food for another entity, a feast served up on a filthy, claustrophobic platter. He’s not about to do it again, least of all for the Spiral, whose physical form looms over him, colours and shapes twisting and swirling under its too-white skin. He spits, spots of hot pink and chartreuse hitting the floor by its feet. 

“I don’t care how fucking _hungry_ you are,” he sneers, “Why did you get me out of there? You don’t gain anything from it, it doesn’t make sen-”

Mike’s cut off by the Spiral’s distorted laugh, watching as it tilts its head back and brings an elongated hand up to its face. It’s strangely hypnotising to listen to, going on for weeks and hours and seconds and _forever,_ all at the same time. When it’s done, it’s looming figure crouches in front of him, bony fingers cupping his face and thumb scraping across his cheekbone in mock-affection. “My dear Mike Crew,” it says, “When have I _ever_ done something because it makes sense?”

Mike opens his mouth to respond but closes it when he realises the Spiral - or whatever name it’s using now - is right. He sighs, pulling away from the hand on his face, the anger this time replaced with complete exasperation. “As much as I’m enjoying this chat,” he says, “I didn’t escape the Buried because I wanted to catch up with the Spiral.”  
“Mhmm, I know.” The Spiral grins, its long blond hair twisting and curling like they have a life of their own. He watches, glaring up at it with confidence he definitely should not have.  
“I’m not scared of you.” Mike's voice comes loud and clear, surprisingly even himself with how strong the words sound. A distorted chuckle cuts him off and the static that pushes against Mike's brain starts to envelop him, momentarily cutting off his senses with a pervasive, grainy buzz.

“For now.”

“Take me home,” he tells it, which earns him a raised brow in response as both he and the spiral return to their respective full heights, “Now.”

The laugh that the distortion lets out is a loud, buzzing one. Mike feels his skin crawl at the sound, like there's a thousand static shocks pricking at his arm from beneath the surface of his body. He finds himself scratching at his scar, a phantom pain washing over him. He sees lightning in the dark of his eyelids when he blinks, the pale lines etched into his body humming with the ghost of electricity as the Spiral grins its twisted grin, glitching in and out of Mike's frame of vision.

"You may not be scared yet," it tells him, "But you've only been here… well, who knows how long you've been here. What is time if not an illusion humans created to distract themself from their inevitable demises-"

"Get to the point."

"The point is, you're not scared yet-" the Spiral's form twists and distorts, curling in on itself yet somehow it remains completely still, it's technicolour eyes fixed on Mike. "-but you will be. I've never had the pleasure of your company before, Crew, but I know what will break you. I know the horrible unreality you've feared from the moment the Spiral marked you."

"You don't _know_ anything," Mike snaps back, any true fear of the Spiral in him squashed by the red hot anger that overwhelms him, "You don't deal in the truth."

"... That is true."

"I'm not scared of you," he repeats, "I don't know how long I was buried for, but whatever you do to me, it's never going to be as bad as that." He feels a rush of confidence as the Spiral's expression fades into something less manic and more thoughtful, its form shifting into something slightly more… human. It's certainly not defeated- how could it be in its own domain? - but it seems less hostile now, almost subdued. Mike takes a deep breath before stepping closer to it. "I know your whole thing is… not making sense. But it _really_ doesn't make sense to keep me here. You can't kill me and can't feed your god with my fear."

"... You make a point," the Spiral lets out a sigh and the static that penetrates Mike's brain begins to retreat, the neon swirls of colour lining the walls of the corridor fading into more muted tones. "However… do you really expect me to believe that there isn't a single drop of fear in you? That there isn't a single part of you that's terrified of my presence? You gave up your humanity to escape me. Even I _know_ that."

Mike grits his teeth. The Spiral is wrong; the emotion bubbling up inside him is white-hot, and carries none of the ugly, twisting nausea that fear does. At this point, he just wants to leave- and to prove it he takes a step closer. "A lot's changed since you were chasing after me," he says, "And if I have to prove it, I will."

"Then prove it." The Spiral's grin comes back, the strange, twisted light returning to its eyes. It reaches out, its long, sharp fingers cupping his chin as it looks him up and down like a predator ready to consume its prey. Mike swallows, staring into the constellation of spirals in its eyes. It's oddly hypnotising and he finds himself talking again before he can process what he's saying. "So what are they calling you these days?" he asks, surprising himself with how calm his voice is.

" _They_ don't call me anything," the Spiral says, "I suppose _I've_ been calling myself Michael. But what do names matter here?"

"Michael?" Mike raises an eyebrow, "That makes things…"

"Confusing? Yes, I suppose it does." It - Michael- licks its lips, and Mike catches sight of its pointed teeth, glinting an unnatural bright white against the neon pink of its lips. They look sharp, impossibly so, and the thought of how easily they could probably tear into him makes Mike move forward, his anger and bravery feeling both appropriate and totally unearned at the same time. Michael's hand slides over the side of his face, cupping it in its palm. The contact feels strange to Mike, like he's putting his face too close to an old tv and letting the static buzz against his skin. Perhaps it's the nostalgia for that which makes him lean into its touch, apparently catching it off guard.

"You… You're not-" it trips over its words, and for a brief second there's nothing. No static. No buzzing. No glitching in and out of existence like a cheap hologram. The Spiral stands before Mike, yellow hair snaking around its bright neon features as it holds his face in its hands. If he didn't know any better, Mike might have called their situation romantic. 

"I'm not what?" He finally asks in response, leaning closer so the Spiral can't mistake his oddly self-satisfied smirk, "Scared of you? Didn't we already establish that?"

And then Mike Crew does something very, very stupid.

In his defence, he doesn't know how long he'd been stuck in the sodden filth of the buried. It could be months, maybe even years, since he's last had contact with another person, and even then that contact had been getting shot and buried alive. Even before that, it had been months since he’d had any sort of positive interaction with someone and even longer since that interaction had been romantic. Plus, he’s in the Spiral, where logic is but a stranger to the ever-changing, nonsensical unreality that surrounds him. Nothing here is real - not in a strict sense of the term, at least. His decisions here don’t exist, and neither do his actions.

Perhaps that’s why, in a moment of sheer recklessness, he grabs Michael by the collar and yanks it in, pressing his mouth to its own. 

The kiss is strange. Michael, oddly enough, kisses back, its lips feeling warm and wet yet somehow cold and non-existent at the same time. Its hands wrap around Mike’s waist as he adjusts the angle, their mouths slotting together into something that feels a little less natural, and it’s then that he feels his whole body enveloped in loud, intense static until he can no longer tell what’s flesh and what’s a twisted, mangled buzz. It doesn’t hurt though; in fact, it’s an oddly calming sensation and Mike lets out a low hum of satisfaction, carding his fingers through the Spiral’s long, distorted hair. The anger is still there, but he ignores it, instead focusing on pulling Michael in further, deeper, as if to scream _I’m not afraid_ directly into its mouth. When he feels a long, misshapen hand move to his hip he takes the initiative to prod at the Spiral’s mouth with his tongue, coaxing it open and retaking control of the situation. Despite their appearance, Michael’s teeth are completely flat - unnaturally so (another lie, he realises) - and he finds himself able to explore his mouth, tasting the metallic, almost bloody, tang of white noise on his tongue. He wonders how much of Michael’s senses are still human, wonders if it would whine into the kiss if he were to bite its bottom lip, if it would show up if he were to bite its neck, if it would writhe and squirm under him if he were to push things further, just to prove his point. It’s intoxicating to think about, hypnotising almost, and Mike closes his eyes, his senses overwhelmed with static and swirls and spirals of neon and technicolour. He could lose himself like this, he thinks. He could keep holding and kissing and feeling the _thing_ in his arms until it became him and he became it. At the thought of this, he pulls away, red-faced and out of breath. 

“Shit.”

Michael lets out a chuckle, a long finger tracing the line of Mike’s jaw as he steps back from it. “That’s certainly one way to prove a point,” it says, “Certainly unconventional, but I do appreciate the… how should I put this… The irrationality of your actions.”

Mike feels himself go red, even more so than he already is. “Great,” he snaps, “Can I go?”

“I suppose you don’t serve much purpose staying here, do you, Crew?” it cups his chin, stroking his bottom lip with a long, pointed finger before letting go, the hum of an electric shock buzzing over his skin as it does. He shakes his head, not quite trusting himself to give the Spiral an answer. The static returns suddenly, the same one that pushed into the furthest corners of his brain before, and the figure in front of him glitches out of existence with a distorted, echoing laugh. 

In its place, there is a door. It’s the same bright canary yellow as the one that had appeared to him in the buried and Mike makes his way toward it slowly but surely. A sense of deja vu washes over him as he places his hand on the handle, identical to that of the one that had allowed him entry to the Spiral in the first place. This time, however, there’s no pain, no coughing up mud or blood or spots of neon. This time, when Mike opens the door, it isn’t the swirling, twisting corridors of the entity he’d run from for so long, nor is it the filthy, choking hold of the buried come to claim him like a sick prize. This time the door opens and he’s greeted by the familiar cool breeze and never-ending hazy blue of the sky. The sun feels warm and inviting against his skin and the sheer drop just across the threshold sends a familiar jolt of adrenaline and joy through his bones.

Mike takes one last look at the Spiral, muttering his thanks but not caring if it hears. Then, without a second thought, he jumps. The Vast embraces him, kissing his skin as it whistles past and running its cool fingers through his hair. For the first time since his encounter with the Archivist, Mike Crew is free. More than that, he’s finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments appreciated!!


End file.
